


Runaway Train

by CeruleanMusings



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Background Bughead, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Bisexual Toni Topaz, Canon Compliant to a Point, Cheryl Blossom & Toni Topaz friendship, F/F, Family Feels, Gang Violence, Gen, Past Relationship(s), Season/Series 02, background varchie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-10-03 04:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17277485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanMusings/pseuds/CeruleanMusings
Summary: Wynn Tate went into Pop’s to start her shift like any normal day and ended her shift forced to accept that the rose-colored haze over Riverdale had been ripped away for good. The shooting of Fred Andrews isn’t the only thing from that dark day that haunts Wynn. She always wanted to dig into the history of Riverdale, that’s what her podcast is for, but with the Black Hood on the loose, she soon finds she may uncover something she and the rest of the town aren’t ready for. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.





	1. ONE

 

When she was young, around the age of four, Wynona “Wynn” Tate could be found with her nose pig-pressed up against the glass door to the oven as it released the sweet scents of baking cookies or warm bread. She was adamant to be there right as the bell went off signalling that her treats were only a mere twenty minutes of cooling away until she could devour and savor in the rush of sugar across her tongue. Her grandfather, Terrence “Pop” Tate, would have to drag her away and entertain her with a disappearing money trick or a good card game to keep her mind off the slow ticking clock. But Wynn didn’t mind, she loved her “Poppy” and would eagerly follow him around the house. Like a moth to a flame, Wynn was enraptured.

So, it came as no surprise when, eleven years later, Pop found Wynn waiting by the oven in the kitchen of Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe, her nose pig-pressed against the window as she watched the cherry pies form a golden crust. Nowadays he may not be able to distract her with a card game, but he could always insist that she get back to work. All with his warm smile in tow.

“Wynner, come now, you’re going to burn off your eyebrows if you stand too close,” Pop chided. He gently grasped Wynn’s shoulders and backed her away from the oven, laughing at the sound of disappointment she made around her pout.

“It’ll be worth it! I don’t need eyebrows!” she insisted, gesturing to the ovens. “I can’t believe I have to watch people take the pies and I can’t even get a bite of one!”

“I’m sure there will be a few slices leftover by the end of the day.”

Wynn shook her head. “Pop, your pies are the best in town! And, since they’re a limited edition to celebrate the Jubilee, they’re going to fly off the shelves.”

Pop took his ever-present rag off his shoulder and dabbed his forehead with it. Wynn spotted the modest expression settling over his face. “They are quite special. Your grandmother won many blue ribbons at the state fair with these.”

At the mention of Nona, Wynn’s smile wavered slightly. Her eyes moved over to the picture that hung on the wall by the door leading to the front of house depicting her family in black and white: herself at the age of five, her mother, Delilah, holding onto her shoulders and beaming; Pop Tate with his arm around her grandmother and his wife, Nona; and Pop’s mother, her great-grammy Ruth, on the other side of Pop. All beaming as they stood in front of Pop’s diner, frozen in jubilation. If only they knew, merely a year after the picture was taken, their smiles would dim considerably.

Wynn tore her eyes away from the picture and looked back over at Pop, taking in his graying hair, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the rotund shape of his belly, and his big, soft hands that always aided in giving the best hugs. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat at the thought that one day Pop wouldn’t be with her, but she pushed the offending thought aside. She’d go toe to toe with the Grim Reaper as many times as it would take to keep his bloody paws away from her pop.

“I think putting them on the menu right now is the best idea you’ve had,” she said. “Bring some pep back into the town. Especially with what happened with Cheryl.”

Pop sighed. “Yes, she’s been through a rough go of it, hasn’t she?” If one could call losing her brother _and_ father within a span of a few months a “rough go of it”. Yeah.

“I was thinking I could take one to her later?” Wynn suggested, messing with the leather friendship bracelet on her wrist. She shrugged. “Maybe when we’re slow? I have to make delivers anyway and cherry’s her favorite, of course, and, I dunno, I know it’s not _much_ but—”

Pop stopped her, bringing her forward so he could kiss her forehead. His large hand cradled the back of her neck and ruffled her hair. “But it’s enough. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. A _wynning_ idea."

Wynn beamed. Sure, she and Cheryl Blossom weren’t the best of friends but they did have a nice working relationship. Wynn was the first person Cheryl went to when it came to making sure the audio and sound for River Vixen performances were top notch. Wynn took pride in her work, making sure the audio levels were just right and the sound was crisp and clear for celebrations, assemblies, pep rallies, spirit week, theatre performances, anything and everything in between. She took on the title of being president of the A.V. Club, among her other responsibilities, seriously. It was her creative outlet, her baby, and Cheryl saw that level of care and dedication. They made a good team, when Cheryl wasn’t calling her “Wynnie-the-Pooh” at least.

Clapping her hands together, Wynn asked, “Anything you need me to do in the meantime? I don’t think we’ll be hit too hard until about noon. People took the jubilation part of the jubilee a little _too_ seriously.”

Pop chuckled. “Ahh, to be young again.”

“You’re not missing much,” she reported. “Just the regular bit of chaos and debauchery that can be found around Riverdale.” She waved her hand in a dismissive way. “Or, so I hear.”

Pop hummed. He crossed his arms and Wynn side-eyed the pensive look that came across his face when he glanced at her. She’d seen that look too many times in her life. Usually it was followed by her hearing something that she didn’t want to hear. The way that parents seemed to have down to an art that made her wonder if it was their secret super power. “You know I can always cut back your hours.”

There it was. Wynn shook her head, adamant. “And you know that I like these hours. Like that I _have_ hours. Need I remind you, I want to take over one day. The only way I can do that is if I see how everything works first hand. I can’t do that at some party.” Pop moved to say something else, she only let him get as far as opening her mouth before she continued, “I’m not missing out. Really. Midge keeps me up-to-date on the inevitable scuttlebutt that transpires. Almost like I was there myself.” Especially because Midge tended to blow up her phone with every single thought or observation that came to her head whenever she was at a party. She took the phrase “blowing up my phone” to an _entirely_ new level. Midge texted like she talked: fast, frenzied, and all-over-the-place.

Pop nodded, resigned. “How was the Jubilee, then?”

Wynn sighed, glad to have the subject changed. Her eyes darted over to the pies in the oven once more before she answered. “It was good! Josie and the Pussycats performed a new song that Archie wrote. His hand’s still banged up but he went on anyway and it sounded really good. And Betty’s speech? I think it will put some things in perspective in Riverdale. Maybe have people stop jumping on bandwagons and conclusions in their need for answers and scapegoats.” At Pop’s grunt in response, Wynn’s eyebrows lifted and she was prepared to ask about it when the doorbell at the front of the shop jingled, signaling a customer.

Smoothing down the wrinkles in the hem of her uniform, of which she didn’t have time to iron that morning, she hurried to the front to greet the customer. Her eyes quickly scanned the barren booths until they rested on Fred Andrews as he eased himself at a table right beneath the backwards BURGERS sign applied to the windows. He tapped the tips of his fingers together and glanced out the window, as if waiting for someone.

Wynn grabbed the pot of decaf coffee and a clean mug, making her way around the diner floor with ease. “Mr. Fred! What brings you in this morning?” she asked as she set the mug down and poured steaming coffee into it.

“Hello there, Wynn.” His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled. He always had a way of greeting the kids of Riverdale as if they were his own; Fred Andrews was one-of-a-kind. “I’m just waiting on my son.”

“Figured everyone would be taking the time to sleep in after the festivities last night,” she commented. She went back to the island and picked up a newspaper off a stack that she had brought in earlier. Opening it and folding it back to the sports page, as she knew he liked to start with, she added, “You must have been so proud of him. That song was _amazing_.”

“I am, I am,” he replied, nodding his head. His words, so wistful, sounded to Wynn as if he were still enthralled. “I knew he had a passion for music but this…” he chuckled. “This is beyond what I thought he could do.”

“Well, that’s Archie for ya,” she said, placing a hand on her hip. “Always full of surprises. He’s like…like...”

“A box of chocolate?” he suggested.

She laughed. “Well, I was going to say something about an onion and layers, but that sounds _much_ better. Much more sweet.”

“Speaking of sweet,” Pop said, coming up behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and the faint scent of fresh pastry wafted over her. _Mmm!_ “It sure would be sweet of you to fill the napkin holders.”

Wynn stuck out her tongue, making an exaggerated whine of frustration and then conceded with a sigh. “You’re lucky I like you, Poppy.”

Her wide smile, so full of jest, died when Pop glanced at her and said with such gravity, “Yes, I really am.”

She didn’t have time to put more thought towards it as he shooed her away, stating that he’d take Fred Andrews’ order himself. Wynn, without a choice, agreed and went to fill the napkin holders like she was told. As she moved from table to table her mind wandered around, taking note of the barren landscape reflected in and out of the diner. There were no decorations to be found for the upcoming Halloween holiday. Not that she was surprised, to some it may be in bad taste after all they found out about Jason Blossom and the rest of the Blossom clan. But, deep down, Wynn had to admit she was a bit bummed. Maybe it would help everyone, to go back to their youth with costumes and candy. When the skeletons and stories of the macabre were just that— _stories._ Instead of their reality.

The door jingled again and she looked up, grinning at the sight of their red-headed visitor. Or savior, some would call him. The write up in the _Riverdale Register_ painted him with him with a shiny gold halo, even. _Speak of the devil. Or, in this case, angel._ “Well, if it isn’t the red Power Ranger himself,” she called out.

Archie paused by the candy machine at the door and grinned. She swore sunlight leaked out from between his teeth. “Hey Wynn. What’re you doing here so early?”

She took a moment to make a show of looking around the shop, then to her name pinned to her uniform, and then back up to him. “Counting sheep,” she replied, lifting an eyebrow. Archie shuffled his feet, shoving his hands into the pockets of his varsity jacket. “Yeah, they’re a little scare this morning. Maybe they’re sleeping.” Laughing at her own joke, she shoved a stack of napkins into the empty holder. Afterwards she lifted the lid to the straw dispenser and changed the subject, “Never got a chance to tell you, your song last night as great.”

“Really?” A bashful smile appeared on his face and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks Wynn, that means a lot.”

“I think it’s something that we all need to hear, after everything that happened...” her eyes cast downward, to the white elephant in the room that hung off his arm. Not that he couldn’t carry the weight; she, too, noticed his summer transformation and how much he filled out his jacket compared to years prior. But even as his exterior changed, his interior remained the same. A true puppy in a sea of Bulldogs. “How’s your hand?”

He looked at his hand as if seeing the injury for the first time and rubbed the bandages wrapped around it. Wynn wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear that Archie had hurt himself to rescue Cheryl. He’d give anyone the shirt off his back. Which he’d done for her once, in fact, when she bled through her shorts a few years prior. He tied his shirt around her waist and personally escorted her to the nurse’s office. They really shouldn't call it a period; that made it sound a lot less inconvenient than it really was. The best thing to name it would be an onslaught, really.

“Oh, I’ve had worse.” Archie’s voice yanked her back to the topic at hand and she clicked her tongue. “I’m just glad Cheryl’s okay.” His nose wrinkled, a boyish flash on a manly face, and he grimaced. “Well…”

“I get it. But, let’s be real, Cheryl’s a goddamn phoenix. She’ll saunter out of the ashes in sky high heels and look down on us plebs before we know it.”

“I can only hope. Hey, I’m gonna go talk with my dad.” Archie reached over and gently placed a hand on Wynn’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “See you in school, okay?”

She winked. “Not if I see you first.”

A little joke from when they were children. Archie Andrews, or Andy as Wynn liked to call him—because no one else did—was a saint and a half. A peaceful ginger oasis in a tide of teenage falsehood and alpha bravado. If there was one benefit to having been Reggie’s girlfriend, it was that she got to get to know Archie better.

Of course, they’ve known each other since they were kids but she didn’t really _know_ Archie beyond him seeming to enjoy music (what kid didn’t?) and liking to play football (what boy didn’t?) He was overweight back then, hanging around Jughead and Betty more than anyone else. She got it. At the time she only hung around Valerie but that was because they were neighbors and she’d had a massive crush on Val’s brother, Trev.

But then she started dating Reggie—they weren’t wrong when they said teens make hasty decisions; Exhibit A—and her presence at football and basketball games expanded from being for yearbook purposes to being for girlfriend purposes. And when she wasn’t busy stoking Reggie’s ego (okay, and worrying about him being knocked around, too), she and Archie would hover on the outskirts of the roving football team to talk about, well, _anything._ Archie had a way of making anyone who talked to him feel like they were the most important person in the world. Fred Andrews raised a good one.

The startling peal of the ringing phone caused Wynn to jump. Abandoning the straw carousel, she rushed over to the ringing phone, cursing at the restriction the mustard yellow uniform dress had on her haste. _Honestly!_ Pop may want a certain appeal to come from his diner, but it couldn’t hurt to update their uniforms to something a little less…stiff and starchy. The polyester alone rubbed her the wrong way, in more ways than one. Sure as hell, whenever she became the owner of Pop’s, there would be some changes afoot.

“Thank you for calling Pop’s. Where we offer the best homemade pies in town whenever your craving hits and we put a little pep in your step. This is Wynn, how may I help you,” Wynn rattled off the top of her head the moment she answered the phone. That was another thing she’d change: she’d make the message a tad bit shorter.

As the gruff voice on the other end placed an order for delivery, Wynn removed the pen that she had buried into her curly hair. She was too lazy to straighten all of it that morning. Sometimes, it just wasn’t worth it to try and have hair like the Betty Coopers and the Cheryl Blossoms of the world. The Pussycats knew where it was at when it came to their hair. Hell, they were her hair goals. As she scribbled down the address and order for the customer on the phone, she made a mental note to ask Val for a good ol’ fashioned hair day like they used to have. It’d been too long since their last one.

The jingling of a bell was drowned out by the following bang when the door hit the candy machine. Wynn turned away from the order window, having just pinned the delivery order, and froze. All sound in the diner stopped. Her breath shot out in one rush. Her fingers twitched by her side. Her eyes darted around. Gun. Black Mask. Gun. Pop. Black Mask. Pop. Gun. _Gun pointed at Pop!_

“ _No!_ ”

A shrill scream ripped from somewhere. Sound smacked her all at once. Black Mask shouting for a safe. Pop shouting that they didn’t have one. Dirty glasses and plates breaking, having been kicked off the counter. Napkin wads soaked up leftover milk and juice that spilled on the floor. Pop left a coffee footprint behind as the man in the black mask dragged him along. Size nine. 

_“No!_ ”

Wynn stumbled a step forward. Her throat burned. It hit her: that was her screaming. Screaming for Pop. Screaming for her Poppy. A flash of red. Wynn looked up, locked eyes with Archie. He pressed his lips together. She looked over at Fred, same time as Archie. He shook his head.

 _What!?_ Do nothing? She clenched her teeth. Her pulse raced in the twitching muscle by her chin. Her fingers rolled inwards, nails pressing into her palms. No! Not in her diner! Not in her _home._

Wynn backed slowly, just then noticing one of the other waitresses frozen right beneath the large neon DINER sign on the wall. Her fingers dug into the white cloth she held; Wynn saw the fabric straining in her tight grip. She continued to back up, taking small steps, reaching for the bat hidden behind the swinging kitchen door. Pop didn’t like having guns on the premises. That was probably a good idea. If she’d gotten ahold of it, Wynn wouldn’t hesitate to put the man in the black mask down.

“Show me where the safe is!”

“There is no safe!”

“Don’t be difficult! Show me where it is!”

“ _There is no safe!_ ”

The man jostled and shook Pop. For the first time Wynn saw Pop as he truly was: an older, defenseless man. He’s survived a lot; he told her the stories of his youth. And she would be _damned_ if she just let him go down like that. She just had to get a little bit closer to the bat. Just a little—

“ _Don’t be stupid!_ ”

Wynn’s hands flew up when the man in the black mask turned to her. Her stomach dropped as the shiny barrel of the gun pointed at her. A bullet was faster than a bat. Those weren’t good odds. But still, even as she spied the man’s finger hovering near the trigger, her eyes shifted from him to the bat and back. What would Pop do? What would _Nona_ do?

No sort of answer formed in her mind. There wasn’t enough time. Chaos erupted all in the span of a blink. Fred Andres stood. The man in the black mask turned on him, demanding a wallet. Archie rushed for him. Wynn threw herself to the ground, reaching for Pop. He pulled her to his chest, held her close. He trembled. Or was it her? Was it them both?

_Bang!_

Wynn screamed. The air shattered around her. Her ears rang; somewhere there was a thud and a shout and a pattering of rapid footsteps. The bell jingled, the scent of gunpowder wafted past her nose, and the rapid _ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump_ of Pop’s heartbeat against her ear encased her all at once. 

She clapped her hands over her ears. Her breath shuddered no matter if she inhaled or exhaled. Tremors took over her body and she shook her head. Her eyes burned; tears collected in the corners of her eyes no matter how much she shouted at herself to get a grip and a rock settled in her chest that was only broken up by Archie’s anguished plea, “Hold on, Dad. Just hold on.” 

_Archie!_

Rising to shaking legs, Wynn forced herself to round the counter, like forging through thick mud. She spotted Archie first. Shoulders hunched, body rounded, as if he were huddling over a coveted gem. Her legs held her up until she reached Archie’s side and saw Fred on the floor, money scattered around his prone body, a deep red wound in his side. 

“Oh my god,” Wynn breathed. Pain settled in her chest, swelled with every breath as she looked down at Fred Andrews through tear-blurred eyes. _Fred Andrews._ The man who built forts for some of them when they were kids, the man who came to every school function or activity Archie was involved in, the man who opened his home and had an extra spot at the table if someone needed a good meal. Who would want to harm him? 

“Dad…c’mon, Dad…” Archie muttered. His once pristine cast steadily became pink due to the blood leaking out between his fingers. 

“Is he breathing?” Wynn asked, forcing her breaths stay even, her nerves to calm. Freaking out wasn’t going to help anything.

“Yeah, yeah I think so.” Archie nodded and sniffed. A curse slipped out from between his clenched teeth and he leaned further, his forehead touching Fred’s. “I got you, Dad. I got you.”

Wynn reached out and grasped Fred’s hand, holding it tight between hers. “Everything’s going to be okay, Mr. Fred. Alright?” She brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of her uniform shirt, wincing at the rough pull on her eyelashes. How long ago was it that she thought she would change the uniforms? She snorted and shook her head. _Pathetic_. Shame slammed into her stomach like a well-aimed punch. 

“Pop? _Pop_.” Wynn’s head whipped around when Archie called for her grandfather. He spoke rapidly into the phone, giving short bursts of information to whoever was on the other line. “Pop, we need help. _Now_ ,” he said the moment Archie hung up the phone.

“I know, Archie, I know. I already called the police. They’re sending someone over…”

Wynn’s eyebrows came together as she studied Pop’s face. The way he held his jaw, the way his lips turned into a line. If the police were coming, what was it that he seemed to be so worried about? If Fred was going to be fine, put in good hands…? “They…they are coming right?”

“They’re sending someone over,” Pop repeated. He grabbed his trusty cloth off his shoulder and tossed it over to them. Wynn caught it and immediately placed it beneath Archie’s shaking hands, pressing down on the wound. There was so much blood…so much blood…

“How long’s that gonna take?” Wynn demanded.

“I…Wynner, I’m afraid I don’t know.” His eyes trailed out the window, to the snow that covered the ground, Wynn guessed. They may be on their way but…Riverdale was a small town. If there were any wrecks due to the snowy conditions, and there was no doubt a few had spring up, well…who knew how long it would take for them to arrive?

“I can’t just wait!” Archie said. Apparently, he thought the same. He brushed his face with the sleeve of his varsity jacket; the stark blue and gold now splashed with quick drying blood. Maroon stained the “I can’t! Pop—my _dad_ —”

“I know, Archie, I know.”

Archie shook his head. 

“Pop…the guy! He got away! What about—?” Wynn craned her neck, doing her best to look past the vinyl booths that lined the windows. But the dark colored seats stared back at her, blocking her view from the window. “He’s…he’s still out there! Pop, he’s still out there!”

“I _know_. But it’s best if we stay here.”

“But…we have to do something! The police—”

“They’re on their way. We can give them a statement.”

“No. _No_.” Archie shook his head again, with more intent this time. “No, I…I can’t wait. No. We have to…I have to get him somewhere. The hospital.” Fred groaned as Archie shifted his father. “The truck. Wynn, help me. Alright? We—we can get him to the truck. And I can get him to the hospital.”

“Andy, you can’t drive! You don’t have your license!” Wynn pointed out.

“I don’t care! I’d rather have no license than no dad! Alright?”

At that, Wynn clamped her mouth shut and she did her best to ignore the right nerve he’d hit with his comment. If there was anyone who knew about living life without a father, it was her. As far back as she could remember it’s just been her and her mother kicking ass and taking names. She didn’t need a father…but a dad would be nice. And Fred Andrews was like the town’s dad; without him, everything would fall apart.

“Okay.” She nodded, licked her dry lips, and nodded again. “Okay. C’mon, Mr. Fred, you’re gonna be alright.”

Together. Archie and Wynn managed to get Fred up and onto his feet and shuffled him out to the Andrews’ truck that waited outside. The cold breeze smacked her in the face and sucked all the air out of her chest. It exploded in front of her in a cloud which dissipated a moment later. Snow seeped into her shoes and froze her toes, but they trudged on and, after a few stumbles, managed to get the passenger door open and Fred inside. As Wynn closed the door behind him, she caught sight of the dried blood on her hands. Fred’s blood. _So much blood…_

“Hey Wynn.” Wynn looked up from her hands and into Archie’s eyes. Beneath the fear and uncertainty lay a fire and that alone let her know that everything would be okay. “Thank you.”

Wynn waved him away. “Get out of here” she said, brushing off his thanks. Their teeter-totter of favors would never find its balance point. She backed away as Archie got in and, by the time he started the truck and peeled out of the driveway she hovered by the front door of Pop’s, looking up and down the street for the gunman.

Was he still lurking around? Watching them? Waiting?

With a hard hit to her stomach, Wynn doubled over and her breakfast splashed onto the parking lot after being launched from her throat. Her retching echoed in the still air as the haze of sleep and the sheen of jubilation eased away. Stomach clenching, she sunk to her knees and her fingers curled against the rough asphalt as if trying to stay secure. _Stop the ride, I wanna get off!_

Only when she was sure an organ wouldn’t come up her throat, did she get back to her feet. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a streak of saliva smeared across her pale brown skin. Her eyes burned, and her head pounded and she did her best to hold on but, when Pop’s large hand settled on the small of her back and he uttered a quiet, “Oh, Wynner”, she came undone.

Turning on her heel, she looped her arms around Pop’s rotund middle and buried her face in his chest, squeezing him hard as hearty sobs took over. Not only did she cry for Fred Andrews, she cried for the death of the innocence of Riverdale as she knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! My resolution this year is to update my fanfics more, and stress less about them. What better way to mark the start of a New Year and a new resolution than by posting a new story? This fic starts right at the beginning of Season 2, obviously, but there are a few changes to the show plot that I'm going to make for this story and just because I don't agree with everything the writers wrote. Oh well! Please read and review! Let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is always welcomed.
> 
> ~C.M.


	2. TWO

Wynn drummed her chipped polished fingers against the bar top in a rapid, frenzied rhythm. Biting may be better, less annoying, but it was a habit she broke years ago after Pop soaked her fingers in pickle juice to curb her habit. The scent of pickles alone, to this day, still turned her stomach. She'd rather take that than the crushing silence that settled in Pop's as they waited for the police to show up. And waited, and waited, and waited.

Sighing, Wynn paused her drumming to glance at the clock on the wall. A noise of choking disbelief sounded in her throat. How could ten minutes have only passed by? That was impossible! And yet, the numbers didn't lie. She gritted her teeth and spun around on the barstool she'd taken residence of the minute she got back inside from the biting cold. Riverdale was a small town; how could it take so long for Sheriff Keller to come by?

"Wynn, maybe you should head home," Pop spoke up. He hovered in the doorway between the kitchen and the front of house, half watching the door and half checking on the food in the back. He'd sent the rest of the staff home once he let them out of the supply pantry that they'd hidden themselves in.

Wynn ignored him. It wasn't the first time he'd offered up that suggestion, but she wasn't going anywhere. She wasn't going to leave him alone. And so she planted herself on a bar stool doing her best to keep busy so she wouldn't stare at the pool of blood still on the floor.

"I can wait for Sheriff Keller and close up afterwards," he continued.

"What?" That made Wynn turn around, settling a hard stare on him. "What do you mean close up?" Her fingers fluttered by her face to signify quick quotation marks.

"Well, after what happened, I just don't think it's a good idea to keep the diner open for today," he said, wringing his hands on his mottled apron.

She shook her head, maybe rattling the words around enough would help them to stick in her mind better. "…Pop, we're open 24/7. We've never closed," she said.

Pop nodded. "I understand, Wynn. And I know. But…what happened with Fred, I don't feel comfortable staying open."

"But what about the rest of Riverdale? When they find out what happens…some may want to come here. To feel comfortable with your food."

"That very may well happen, but I think the town will understand."

Wynn laced her fingers together and pressed her fists to her mouth. Her leg jiggled beneath the table, as if all the nerves in her body decided to relocate into her leg. Maybe the town would understand but…she wouldn't. Because if they closed…that meant that something bad happened. That Fred Andrews really did get shot just a few minutes ago. In her home. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Pop's couldn't close. They couldn't stop moving. She couldn't stop moving because if she sat for too long… She blew out a breath. No. Mr. Andrews would be fine. He'd be fine. Everything was going to be fine. And everything could go back to normal and everything will be right on track again and go according to plan.

Wynn didn't deviate from her plans. Plans were made to point her in the right direction, a step-by-step guide to achieve her goals and cross items off her list. And some random psychopath storming into Pop's, shooting Mr. Andrews and effectively closing Pop's for the first time ever was certainly not a part of her plan.

"I do have final say," Pop continued when Wynn didn't say anything. He walked over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. "And I say I want you to go home and be safe."

"Poppy, I don't want you to be alone."

"I'll be okay."

"The guy might still be out there!"

"I've been through worse, Wynner. I've been though many things in my past that have helped bring me to the man I am today. This…this doesn't scare me." He moved his hands from her shoulders and cupped her cheeks, turning her face up to his. "Losing you scares me. I've already spoken to your mom, she wants you home too."

"You pulled the mom card," Wynn managed to tease after a gasp, "that's beneath you!"

Pop cracked a smile. "I've been around a long time, sometimes you gotta know which cards to play."

Wynn's eyes shifted from Pop's face and to the window where ticket orders remain unfilled. The minute the man in the black hood left the remaining guests fled. Those orders could be cancelled, no problem, especially if they hadn't been filled yet. But then, what about the others…? Biting her lip, Wynn tried once more. "What about our deliveries?"

"They're just…going to have to go without today, I guess," Pop said. He may be able to keep a brave face but his eyes spoke volumes. He was the head of their house, he was their rock, he had all the answers. She'd never seen such defeat and uncertainty in her life.

Wynn shook her head. "No. No way." Pop's had a reputation. A good reputation; deliveries on time and still hot. Even when a large order was called in at the last minute, they could guarantee everything would arrive to their customer satisfaction. If they let that fall by the wayside, then…wouldn't that mean the shooter won? "I can take them."

"Wynn, you're going home."

"And I will. After I make the deliveries."

"I'm not letting you go out there by yourself."

"And I don't want to leave you here but you're making me go. So, it's a win-win situation, right?" She didn't give him a chance to protest as she hopped off the stool and reached for the tied knot on the back of her apron. She hurried into the back and changed out of her itchy mustard yellow uniform dress and back into her comfortable jeans, soft faded vintage t-shirt, and doc martens. "I'll go straight home after, I promise," she continued once she stepped out of the back room, completely changed. She watched as he scratched at his graying hairline. "Please just…let me do this. Let me do something."

With a resounding sigh, Pop nodded. Wynn allowed a small smile through, silently thanking him. The two went back into the kitchen and worked in tandem to finish the delivery orders that were left. He packed them into an insulated bag as she gathered up the rest of her belongings. She made sure to write down a statement for what she witnessed with the attack and went outside to get her bike ready.

She barely curled her fingers around the handle bars when the tremors set in. Her breaths caught in her chest and a weight began to crush down on her. She forced herself to ease her breathing, clenching tighter on the handle bars as she tried to ease the shaking in her hands. Scenes flickered through her mind, the man holding onto Pop, the man pointing at Fred, Archie running in, a pool of blood on the floor. No, no! Wynn shook her head and forced the images away, wheeling her bike around to strap the bag onto the luggage cart on the back.

"Here." Pop handed her a slip of paper holding the addresses of her customers. "Now, Wynn, these deliveries are for the Southside, okay?" Wynn's eyebrow popped at that and it finally hit her. Now wonder he was so adamant about her going straight home. She'd always been told to stay away from the Southside, to not even think about setting foot over there. As if the boogeyman or monsters hid in the dark and lurked down every alley. "I normally wouldn't send you there but under the circumstances—"

"I'll be okay, Poppy. I can take care of myself." Wynn clipped her helmet beneath her chin, clutched the address in her hands, and lifted her kickstand with her heels. "I have my phone. I'll call you if anything comes up."

"Okay, I love you."

"I love you, too."

Balancing her weight, Wynn kicked off the ground and started pedaling away before Pop could stop her. She charged down the street, legs pumping, piles of old snow gliding past her vision like smears of paint. Her breath puffed out in front of her face, her nose burned, her lungs ached, but still she kept pedaling. Only when her chest heaved and her heart revved did she slow down, dragging her heels on the ground. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks and she brushed them away with the back of her hands.

"Do your job, Wynn. Save the tears for your pillow," she muttered. "You have a job to do. Come on." As she took in a deep breath of cold air and sit sunk down her throat, she pushed her emotions down and sealed them away. Still, she dug into her pocket and fired off a text to Archie just to see how things were going. She didn't expect a response right away.

Wynn set off again, pedaling down the street, pausing just for a fleeting moment to wonder how everything around her seemed to stay the same. Before she knew it, she reached the train tracks that separated the two parts of town. She sat back on the cushioned bike seat, glancing at the town ahead of her. At the shabby shutters on the nearby businesses, the chipped paint on the walls of the buildings, the desaturated tint on the entire town. Pressing her lips into a line, she kicked her pedal forward, stepped on it, and rolled over into the Southside.

Her eyes darted around each street sign she passed, being careful not to lock eyes with any of the Southsiders that walked up and down the streets. They didn't seem to care about her, barely glancing her way before continuing to their destinations. Her breathing eased as she stopped periodically to check her phone, making sure she had the addresses plugged in right to get to where she needed to be.

For a while she considered calling Jughead to see if he'd be able to aid her in her search since she knew he lived on the Southside. She wrinkled her nose and shot down that idea right away. She could do this on her own, told Pop that she would, and relying on Jughead wouldn't prove that to him or to herself. Besides, he'd probably give her a hard time about it in his pretentious otherworldly way and she just wasn't in the mood for their usual game.

Thankfully, two of her delivers were located within the Sunnydale Trailer park, or so her GPS said. As she drove down the rows and rows of trailers that lined the street, checking the address numbers, she couldn't miss the metal drums filled with what appeared to be burnt newspapers lying in their front yards along with abandoned bikes, some A/C units, ladders, motorcycles, pickup trucks and dilapidated lawn chairs. A far cry from her square of green lawns by her home. It was small and she was used to it but even she couldn't picture living somewhere as small as a trailer park.

Her tires skidded against the asphalt when she squeezed the brakes outside of her first stop. She settled the bike, put down the kickstand, and double checked the address. Nodding in confirmation, she removed her helmet and unzipped the insulated bag attached to the back. She removed the order and walked up the short, creaky wooden steps. Once at the door she wrapped her knuckles against it and barely managed to announce "Delivery!" when a loud scuffle sounded inside.

Her eyebrows knitted together as what sounded like heavy furniture being shoved around followed by rapid footsteps and creaking floorboards. Her free hand went to the front pocket of her jeans where her phone lay secured. A movement caught her eye. The window closest to her had its curtains drawn back far enough that she spied an eye starting back at her. It fell back into place a second later and the distinct sound of a chain sliding against it's lock reached her ears.

"Yeah? Whaddya want?" a voice barked once the door opened far enough to reveal an bushy eyebrow and a gray eye.

"I..erm…I have…" Wynn stuttered. She closed her eyes, forced herself to get a grip, and said in as steady a voice as possible, "Delivery. From Pop's. For a few burgers, some fries, and a piece of pie?" The door opened a little wider and a tall, thick man with a rotund belly encased in flannel and the most bodacious handlebar mustache she'd ever seen stepped out onto the top porch. She took a step back. "Total is twenty-five forty-nine."

The man hummed as he dug into his back pocket and removed a wad of money. Wynn made it a point not to stare as he flipped the bills over, counting the total. Though she didn't miss the glob of saliva that lay on his thumb in his aid to flip some of the stuck money over and she kept her face steady as she tried to take it from him without touching his hand. Ugh.

"There's twenty-six," he said, voice raspy. "Keep the change."

He snatched the bag out of her hand and slammed the door in her face. All she could do was scoff. Change? What change? Was the fifty-one cents supposed to be her tip? Even the handsy drunken late-night patrons at the bar tipped her better than that. She almost wished she would rather deal with that. But, still, she put a smile on her face as she called through the door, "Thanks for choosing Pop's, have a good day!" Professionalism died hard.

Wynn turned on her heel and went back to her bike. She checked the address on the paper again and set off for the next house. This one looked to be in a bit better shape with bright blue and white striped window awnings and an orange and yellow pinwheel spinning in the front yard. The sight of a pink bicycle helmet laying in the yard allow her shoulders to lower from her ears. That had to be a good sign, right?

She approached the house only to stumble over a bucket laid out by the short driveway. She stumbled, heart revving, and quickly caught her balance. She turned around and her stomach dropped at the sight of red paint spilling out in a slow and steady trickle. She shook her head and brought an arm up to block her nose and mouth as her stomach rolled. Just deliver and go! Deliver and go!

Bolting up the stairs, Wynn slammed her fist on the door, willing herself not to throw up at the person's door. She lifted her fist again and flinched when it sailed through the air and almost struck the woman standing on the other side of the door.

"Oh, dangit! I'm sorry! I didn't see you!" Wynn rolled her shoulders back and brushed her hair out of her face. "Delivery from Pop's. Grilled cheese, ham and swiss omelet, silver dollar pancakes and chicken fingers?"

"Oh, yes! Thank you so much." The woman on the other side of the door smiled as she dug into her pockets. Wynn noticed one of her front teeth was missing. Near her a little boy approached, no older than three, and grasped onto the woman's pants leg.

"I, uhm, I accidentally knocked over a can of paint."

"Oh, yeah, don't worry about that." She waved her hand in a dismissive motion. "My son was supposed to put the paint away a while ago. Guess I'll have to tell him again when he gets back from work. ..I'm sorry, how much was it?"

"Erm…twenty-two fourteen."

"Right. Okay, let me see. Just…hold on a moment, please?" Wynn nodded and the door closed. A wisp of a breeze came by and slid down her neck. She shuddered on the doorstep and jogged in place as the seconds ticked by. A few moments later the door opened and the woman appeared, still smiling but it was a little strained. "Okay, there's the twenty-two fourteen. And here's…three dollars. I'm sorry it's not much but—"

"No, please, it's okay. Enjoy your food and thanks for choosing Pop's." They exchanged money for food and Wynn waved at the little boy before leaving.

She'd barely gotten her hands on her bike handles when she shuddered but, this time, it wasn't due to the cold. She looked up and gulped. Three tall, muscular guys stood around her. Where had they come from? Her eyes darted from their faces to the space around her to figure out what shadows they'd slunk out of.

"You're on the wrong side of the tracks, Northsider," the first one said, sporting an eyepatch. A flash of a snake on the back of one of their jackets grabbed her eye. Southside Serpents. Great.

Wynn gulped. "I'm just…here for a delivery. That's all."

"Yeah? Where's our food, then?"

"It's not for you." She immediately slammed her hands down on the insulated bag attached to the back where one last delivery lay.

"I'm hungry. What? I don't get to eat?" Eyepatch grinned and stepped closer to her.

"Forget the food, you know I've always had a sweet tooth," one of the other men said, flashing a golden smile.

Sour bile rolled in her stomach. The zippered rim along the bag dug into her fingers and her mind reeled as they stepped closer. Two options: run or fight. Running, well, they were taller and could catch up to her in a few short strides. Plus, she couldn't leave her bike behind. But if she fought? Really, how much damage could she do? She wasn't a fighter. She wasn't weak but she wasn't dumb either. She could probably get one hit in, maybe two, but these guys? She'd be out before she hit the ground. They didn't look like they kept power back from their punches.

Sweat dripped from her hairline and down the side of her face. She gritted her teeth. Okay, okay. You just gotta take down as many as you can. And so she readied herself, held her breath, tensed her muscles. Her fingers twitched and she began to let go of the insulated bag when a door to a trailer nearby flung open with a bang.

"Bullseye! Back off!" a gruff voice called out. The four men turned around and Wynn lifted her head. A man stood on a miniature porch nearby, hands holding steady on a shotgun. No one moved. "You heard what I said. Get!"

"You're just gonna let this Northside scum go?"

"What I do is not your business! Now you leave that little lady alone! Go on, now!"

"C'mon, man," the last one, one with a tarantula tattooed on his neck, slapped Eyepatch's—or Bullseye's—arm. "Don't mess with Thomas. Let's go."

Bullseye sniffed and turned his good eye to Wynn. "If I ever see you over here again—" he snarled.

"Come on!" Gold Teeth pushed on Bullseye's arm and they, along with Tarantula, rushed off.

The air stilled around Wynn. She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat and did her best to keep her nerves at bay. She grabbed her abandoned helmet and checked her cargo all under the watchful eye of the man—Thomas he was called—who still stood on his porch, shotgun in hand. She swung her leg over her bike seat, teetering for a second only to right herself again. Right back on track, like usual.

"Hey." Thomas's call stopped her short. Her shin scraped against the peal she'd started to place her foot on. Her leg throbbed and she did her best to keep the pain off her face. Pain was weakness. "You alright?"

"M'fine," Wynn replied with a curt nod.

Thomas nodded back. His dark, thick eyebrows came together, and she shrunk beneath his hard stare. Why was he looking at her like that? She licked her lips and started to move again when he made no motion to move or say anything else. She'd barely ridden past his house when he stopped her again. "You work for Pop?"

She dragged one heel against the ground. While her entire body itched to leave, her mother's voice in her head made her stop in her tracks. Respect your elders. Don't be rude. She learned that lesson the hard way. And so she bit her tongue to keep from replying, "No, the sign on the case is just for show" despite the bright Pop's label attached to the side of the bag. She nodded.

"You Pop's girl?"

"…Granddaughter."

Thomas hummed. Finally, he lowered his shotgun, resting it against the railing nearby. "He sent you all the way out here?"

"Tight circumstances," Wynn replied, curt. She didn't like what he was implying. Like Pop didn't care about her wellbeing and sent her around Riverdale willy-nilly.

"Where are you headed?"

"Whyte Wyrm?"

He lifted his salt-and-pepper colored chin back the way she came. "That's up on Main St. on your left. If you get to the railroad tracks you've passed it."

"Thank you."

"Get back home soon, little lady. This aint no place for you."

Wynn took off. He didn't have to tell her twice. And even as she turned out of the trailer park, she glanced over her shoulder. She just couldn't shake that look in Thomas's eye.

If Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe was a Candy Land dream, then the Whyte Wyrm was its gothic misunderstood little sister. All light that entered the bar from the door became swallowed by its darkened interior as it swung shut behind Wynn. Her eyes adjusted to the low lights fast an she spotted a plethora of pool tables, pinball machines, arcade games, and dart boards littering the bar. Flittering from table to table, from game to game were leather and flannel clad people of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some carried cigarettes between their lips, some had ring-encased fingers wrapped around beer bottles, and all appeared to float within the smoky haze like wraiths in the night.

Wynn placed a hand to her chest, coughing when she inhaled a burst of smoke that came somewhere from her left. The smoke took on a neon green haze beneath the snake signs emblazoned on the walls and—was that an actual live snake!?

Like a moth drawn to a flame, Wynn made a beeline through the crowded bar to peer at the coiled yellow and white snake displayed proudly on a high-top. Her nose pressed up against the glass, she watched as the snake lifted its head and locked eyes with her. It blinked and flicked out its slim tongue and then lowered its head again. She grinned.

"Hey." A hand clapped down on her shoulder and Wynn was yanked around. A dirty blonde-haired woman dug her fingers into Wynnn's shoulders and sighed. "What is it with you Northsiders walking in here like you own the place? What? Too good to show your faces until you want something from us?"

"Back off, Byrdie!" Parting through the sea of Southsiders, Wynn stared at the owner of the sharp voice: a girl whose hair was streaked with a violet hue, a swish to her hips with every step, and a fire within her eyes that burned so bright Wynn actually took a step back. "She's got a delivery, see?" The girl pointed to the forgotten bag in Wynn's hand. "Deliveries are immune. Especially from Pop's, you know the deal. So, take your over-processed extensions and leave her alone. It's probably for Hog Eye anyway."

Wynn kept her mouth shut. Sometimes it was better to be seen and not heard. And besides…Bullseye? Byrdie? Hog Eye? Did everyone in the Southside have such weird names. Then again, she didn't have much room to talk. Afterall, there was a "Moose" roaming their halls and "Jughead" was a bit off the norm as well.

When Byrdie didn't move, the girl waved her hand in a dismissive way and approached Wynn. "A double-stack burger, fries, and onion rings, right?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, that's for Hog Eye. Come on." The girl moved towards the bar, the patrons parting for her as she moved by. Every now and then she'd stop, lean over a table and take an empty mug with frothy bubbles left on the sides. By the time they reached the bar and the girl ducked behind it, she clutched four mugs from her fingers as if they were weightless. She put the mugs in a sink and reached for a new one, settling it beneath a tap that she pulled. "How much is it?"

"Uhh…" How much was it? The numbers didn't come up in her mind right away. She patted her pockets for the paper Pop had given her, frowning all the while. She'd never forgotten information before; addresses, names, prices, everything was locked up tight in her head. All to help keep herself on track. Any deviations would only set her behind. She knew Pop was waiting. "Oh, uhm…nineteen seventeen."

"Nineteen seventeen, okay," the girl repeated. She set the filled mug on the bartop and slapped it twice. As if one cue someone who smelled heavily of cigar smoke came and took the glass. The girl wiped off her hands and pushed a few buttons on a nearby cash register. It slid open with a ding and the girl counted a few bills before handing them over. "There ya go."

Wynn took the money and counted it, her fingers stumbling over the amount in her hand so she checked again and again. What? Eyebrows furrowing, she lifted her head to see the girl looking at her, a soft smile on her lips. "You gave me too much."

"Nah, girl, I gave you the right amount," she said. Wynn's lip twitched in the corner. "Servers gotta stick together, right?"

"You work here, then?"

The girl lifted an eyebrow, smile widening. "You're observant."

"Just…doesn't seem like your scene."

"Oh yeah? And what kind of scene do you think I belong to?"

Wynn allowed her eyes to sweep over the girl from head to toe, from the color in her hair to shiny gloss on her lips to the hanging sun earrings to the red color pops on her nails. It was odd to see such a rich red on someone else's fingers than Cheryl Blossom. "…Something…colorful. Art, maybe."

The girl nodded slowly and then winked. "Well, you're not entirely wrong. I do like to take pictures."

"Yeah? Me too."

"Journalism?"

"Yearbook."

"Same thing."

"Not really. I just take the pictures, capture the moment. I don't need the words to go along with them. Well, you don't if you're good."

"Well, look who's fancy," the girl said with a little wiggle to her head. She rested her elbows on the bar and leaned forward. "They just allowed you to come all the way over here, Fancy Girl? Haven't seen you around. Usually that Pop guy delivers. And he doesn't evens set foot in this bar."

"His hands were tied."

"I see." The girl nodded again and tossed her head, flicking her hair over one shoulder. "Lucky for me, then." Before Wynn even had a chance to wonder what that meant the girl continued, "You're a sight for sore eyes. I can only choke on so much testosterone for so long." She motioned around the bar where a group of teenage boys had burst into a round of cheers and applause by a pool table. "It gets old real fast."

Wynn snorted. "Hitting the ground running, eh? I've always had some trouble with the nightcrawlers."

"Hey, it's happy hour somewhere." The girl extended her hand; silver bangles slid down her slim writ. "I'm Toni."

Wynn shook her hand. "Wynn." She clicked her tongue and glanced at the money in her hand. "Really, this is too much."

"Really, it's not," Toni insisted. "You delivered around here, right?" Wynn nodded. "Yeah, some can be a bit stingy. It's not cool." She shrugged. "So it's whatever."

"Right." Wynn put the money away. Maybe she could put some of the large tip back without Toni noticing. She hummed. "What did you mean earlier?"

Toni removed a rag from beneath the bartop and began to wipe it down. "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific," she said, her voice now having a bit of a raspy drawl. She glanced at Wynn from beneath her long lashes.

Wynn licked her lips. "Deliveries are immune. Especially from Pop's?" She let the end of her sentence raise.

A beat of silence stretched out between them. Toni tilted her head. "Like I said. Deliveries are immune. Especially from Pop's." She went back to wiping. "It's always been like that around here. Since as far back as I can remember. Pop's is…special. Or so I'm told."

That he is.

The buzz of her phone in her pocket made Wynn jump and scramble for it. She already had her apologies prepared—for not telling Pop of the finished deliveries and not rushing back like she said—when she noted the flashing text message icon rather than an incoming phone call. Which was worse. Pop didn't text unless it was important.

Cringing, she opened the message, mentally preparing herself only to stop when she spotted the name attached to the text.

Archie.

Wynn swiped her thumb across the screen and tapped a couple of times, waiting for the text message to appear:

Dad's in surgery. I don't know what to do. Can you come?

"Everything…okay?" Toni asked.

"Yeah. Uh, just…gotta go," Wynn said, shoving her phone away. "Emergency." She pushed away from the bar, squeezed through the crowd of Serpents by the door, and ran to her bike that, thankfully, was still there. She knew Pop said to go straight home but, well, the hospital was on her way home…if she went out of her way.

So, she lifted her kickstand and she went.


End file.
